Frederick Forsyth was in dire straits. After 18 months of freelance reporting on the Biafran war, the 31-yearold journalist had returned to London owning nothing more than the clothes he stood up in. Sleeping on a friend’s sofa, he decided to pursue the pipedream of many a struggling hack before him, and write a bestselling novel.
Just 35 days later, Forsyth had produced a manuscript with the working title of The Jackal. It was...
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